Things I Would Like to Say to the Half-Empty Bottle of NyQuil on My Nightstand

[Lies on bed; sleeps for three hours; wakes up drenched in sweat with covers twisted around body.]

GODDAM IT, WHAT PART OF “LEAVE ME ALONE” DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND? I’M FREEZING.

[Flings twisted covers aside; sleeps for twenty more minutes.]

All right, look: it’s pretty clear you figured out a way to cloud my mind while I was sleeping and somehow tighten the skin of my skull, or maybe enlarge the skull bone itself, which would have the same result. The point is, however you did it, you did it, and what’s done is done. No hard feelings. I can even admire the ingenuity of it. What I need for you to do now, though, and I mean right now, is reduce the pressure on my temples by whatever means may be appropriate, whether it’s, you know, loosening the skin or slightly reducing the bone mass of the skull, because I swear to God I can smell time.

[Lies on side, softly keening, for eight minutes. Abruptly sits up.]

“Smell time”? I never said I could “smell time.” That doesn’t even make sense. You’re being ridiculous. You are a ridiculous thing. A ridiculous, blue thing. And I’ll tell you something else.

Oh, Jesus. Oh, dear sweet Jesus. I’m sorry I called you “ridiculous.” I wasn’t myself just then. Besides, it was hours ago. Help me.

[Falls into shallow, troubled sleep; dreams fitfully of drowning.]

…Nemo!…Oh. Not dead. O.K.

[Stares at ceiling, heart hammering wildly.]

So, wait: Are you the one that makes me drowsy or the one that keeps me awake? Because somehow you seem to be doing both, and I don’t see how that’s possible. Tell me the truth: NyQuil and DayQuil. They’re the same thing, right? Just some different food coloring in there. Hey, is DayQuil stuck up? Is DayQuil all, “Ooh, I’m DayQuil, I’m the new guy, I’m orange.” Is DayQuil, like, Justin Bieber, and you’re Justin Timberlake? Do you secretly hate each other? You can tell me. Who am I going to blab to, TMZ? I can’t leave the house. I can’t even stand up. I should try standing up. I’m going to stand up. WHOA. WHOAWHOAWHOA

[Twenty minutes later, from a makeshift bed constructed of pillows on the floor.]

I’m not feeling better. I don’t remember what better feels like. I’m never going to feel better. I’m never going to feel like myself again. This is the beginning of a long, increasingly rapid decline. I’m going to die from a cold. I’m going to be the first person in medical history to die from a cold. Not directly, maybe, but eventually, and you’ll know you could have done something about it and you didn’t. LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU.

[Thirty seconds later.]

O.K., I may have been out of line just then. You said some things, I said some things. What’s really important, and I think we can agree on this, is this business with my eyeballs. It’s weird, right? Somebody managed to introduce a fine layer of sandpaper between my eyeballs and their sockets. Again, I’m not blaming anybody, but I’m pretty sure it happened while I was asleep. And I’m not saying you’re in cahoots with them. But if you know anything about how it happened, you should tell me. Or make it stop. You know what? If it’s a choice between the two, yeah: just make it stop.

[Weeps.]

I never used to get colds. Did I tell you that? I can’t remember. I used to be young and vibrant and healthy. I could run for days on just a bowl of cereal, and the summer nights were endless and even the winters seemed warmer and more hopeful. Did I say sandpaper? Because now it feels like bugs. Now it feels like I have millions of tiny bugs crawling around the insides of my eye sockets. It’s either millions of tiny bugs or the sandpaper has achieved sentience somehow. Man, I tell you what, if the sandpaper starts calling the shots we’re all in serious trouble around here, and that includes you.

[Points at NyQuil.]

Yes, it does. You. You do nothing. You’re good for nothing. All you do is make me doubt myself. [Weeps.] I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I know you’re an excellent product with years of brand leadership behind you. [Laughs wildly, coughs, snarls.] I’m not sorry. You’re nothing but a store-brand generic in a fancy uptown label. [Weeps.] I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. It’s my fault. I just haven’t taken enough of you. I’ll take more of you. It’s been six hours. I’ll just take more of you.

[Fills dose cup, drains it, passes out.]

NYQUIL: Excellent. We’re ready to begin. Here’s what I want you to do.

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